


Cursed memories.

by anzu_brief



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzu_brief/pseuds/anzu_brief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras remembered it all, he always had. </p><p>Perhaps always was a hyperbole. He was very young, not yet five years old when the accident happened. It had put him in a coma for eight months in the hospital. Most doctors believed he wasn't going to wake up. Ever. But he did, surprising them all, and along with the memories of his five years of life came others, rougher memories of a far distant past.</p><p>Above all, Enjolras remembered death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cursed memories.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the first one of a series I'm building. I wanted to write about an Enjolras that lives in the modern world, but has all his memories from the past. It's going to be a lot of angst.
> 
> I will focus on both, the past and present. In the present he might seen a little out of character, but keep in mind the he has been dealing with memories of very traumatic events since a very young age. This has had a deep effect on him. He probably will show signs of PTSD, and he will have to deal with this in the future. But don't worry, eventually, he will grow as a person to be the man we all love and admire.
> 
> I warn you all that English is not my first language. I'm quite proficient but even so, I know I make mistakes. I'm looking with a beta who wants to help me to make this story better. So please, if you might be interested in being my beta, don't doubt in contacting me. I'll be very grateful. I really need the help.

Enjolras remembered it all, he always had.

Perhaps always was a hyperbole. He was very young, not yet five years old when the accident happened. It had put him in a coma for eight months in the hospital. Most doctors believed he wasn't going to wake up. Ever. But he did, surprising them all, and along with the memories of his five years of life came others, rougher memories of a far distant past.

Memories of French, of a privileged childhood and lonely teenager years. He remembered faces of friends, cheerful meetings; songs that spoke of freedom and change and revolution; echoes of rallies and soldiers and drums. He remembered the thunder of the cannons and the firepower of the guns; the weight of failure. He could hear, as clearly as it were befalling again in that moment, the pleads and the screams and the cries that preceded the End.

Above all, Enjorlas remembered death.

He was alone, the last man standing. All his friends were dead. He had watch them die. The revolution had failed. The people had not stirred. They had abandoned them to their fate because they were afraid. Now Enjorlas stood alone, in front of the soldiers. He had not hope of victory and yet, he wasn’t defeated.

He stood tall, proud and unafraid, head high and chin up, because he knew, knew in the deepest of his heart and his bones, as a mother knows the cries of her child, as a sailor knows when the waters of the ocean speak of a storm coming, Enjorlas knew this wasn’t the end. Others would come to take their place, others would rise to fight for freedom and for a fairer world. From the ashes of their dead bodies a new revolution would emerge.

He wasn’t defeated and he had faith that, despite their sacrifice, because of their sacrifice, one day the Earth would be free and all men would stand up as equals, as brothers. Yet, he was just a man. A man who couldn’t help but despair at the death of his beloved friends, of his dreams and his hope. A man who was about to face death alone.

He wasn’t defeated, no. But he was hopeless and sad.

Then he appeared. The drunk, the cynic, the good-for-nothing Grantaire. The only one of his friends that Enjorlas had never been sure if he liked. He esteemed his presence, in some sort of distant way; and, reluctantly, he acknowledged his potential, because Grantarie had a lively intelligence and ready wit and he could argue and defend his argument as the best of them. But he also despised him, for allowing such a potential to be wasted in wine and whores.

He confused him. Enjorlas had lost hope a long time ago of convincing Grantire to share his beliefs, his faith in the human race. He didn’t believe in the revolution, he didn’t believe in the people, he, most likely, didn’t believe in anything, despite his puzzling declaration of believing in Enjorlas.

The truth was that, despite his several attempts to prove himself, Grantaire had never earned his respect, and Enjorlas had come to expect very little or nothing from him. It was, after all, the best way to avoid disappointment.  
But he was there with him, at the end.

When Enjorlas was alone and about to die, when all his friends were gone and the revolution had been defeated. When he wasn’t defeated but he was hopeless, and sad, and perhaps a little scared. Grantaire walked in.

Long life the Republic!

He spoke words in which he didn’t believe.

I’m one of them. Finish us both with one blow.

He walked towards Enjorlas. His blue eyes, clear of any rest of intoxication, were bright and full purpose and determination. His face carried a solemn expression, his back was straight, his walk was severe and his chin was lifted. For once, he carried himself with an air of dignity and resolve.

There was not a shadow of self-doubt in his glance. Not fear, not dread, not hesitation. Not until he reached Enjorlas. He paused then, and look at him to the eyes.

He hesitated.

Do you permit it?

It was the climax of a story that Enjorlas hadn’t been aware, not until that precise moment, the two of them had been writing. It was the perfect end for their part on the play. It just fitted.

He was going to die, but he wasn’t alone. And suddenly, he was no longer hopeless, or sad, or scared. Grantaire was at his side. Grantiare the cynic, the drunk, Grantaire who believed in nothing but, somehow, believed in Enjorlas. And if Enjorlas had made Grantaire believe, who was to say what the human race would achieve tomorrow? There were not limits to that, only hope for the future.

But Enjorlas was about to die, and Grantiare was at his side, and he knew this was where he belonged. So he reached out his hand to take his, and Grantaire accepted it, and Enjorlas smiled. A beautiful, sincere smile.

Then came the sound of the gunfire, from afar as it belonged to another word. Finally, just silence.

He knew he had died then, both of them had, he just didn’t remember the piercing pain of the bullets breaking against his body and penetrating his flesh. Maybe it was for the best.

After Enjorlas awoke from the coma, he had cried for days nonstop; his childlike mind unable to process the horrors of his last hours of life. He didn’t speak a word for weeks, not to his parent nor the doctors. He barely recognized his parents’ faces at the beginning. He did nothing but sob. The doctors had started to fear some kind of irreparable brain damage, due to the extent of the coma.  
Finally, as time passed and the intensity of his new memories started to fade, Enjorlas began to recuperate fragments of his old, young and innocent self. He remember his parents, his house, his cat, his favorite toys, the tittle of his most beloved books, the name of a few friends from Kindergarten… He remembered how life used to be, when he was innocent, carefree, and enthusiastic, unburden with the knowledge of dead friends, a failed revolution and a tragic end.

He didn’t know what to do with those memories. Enjorlas was still a little child, barely six years old now. He remembered shouting words to the public like equality, social contract, universal suffrage and democracy. He remember killing and dying for these words, but he didn’t understand what they meant.

He spoke of this to the doctor and his parents, first. He told them everything he remembered. He asked them questions.

They thought it was dream. Surely Enjorlas had heard someone speak about the French Revolution before the accident happened, in school perhaps, and he had dreamt about it during the coma. A long, terrible dream, not doubt. One that he soon would forget.

When he didn’t forget it and instead kept insisting it had been real, that he remembered it, they started to worry. A long number of psychologies and psychiatrists had been hired to treat him by his parents. Therapy, test, pills. They all agree in the same thing. His memories were not real. It had been only a dream.

After two very long years full of tears, pleads and screams from his parents, eight years old Enjorlas had finally understood that the true would earn him nothing, and so he had relinquished. He told them what they wanted to hear.

Life became much easier after that.

He went back to school, after two years home schooling, and his teachers immediately identified him as a prodigious boy. In truth, he was merely above average intelligent, nothing truly exceptional. He possessed, however, a set of different skills and knowledge from his previous life: he could speak and write proficiently in French, even if his knowledge of English was more limited. He knew several pieces of classic literature, remember much of classic and modern history, had an extend knowledge of French law in the ninetieth century (he opted to keep this a secret, as it was complete useless in his current life), and could stand his own in mathematics.

His parents, after two year of nightmares, doctors and worries, were happy to see him excelling in his schoolwork. They let the teachers handle his education and chose not to get involve. He skipped several grades and finished High School with honors. At fifteen he was offered several scholarship to the most prominent schools of the country. He declined and instead got a job in the local library and as a barista in a near coffeshop during the weekends.

His parents were outraged and threated to throw him out of home. He ignored his threats, and they never went through with it. At eighteen he had saved enough money to buy a plane ticket to France. He told his parents he was leaving the same day his plane departed.

He lived in Paris for two months, but at the end it was too painful. After that, he went Germany and Poland, wanting to see the Berlin Wall and visit some of the concentration camps. The horrors of the Second War World left his heard cold. Even his own experience as a French revolutionary paled compared to the cruelty men showed during that conflict. But it had ended, and the world was a better place because of it.

Then he moved to Spain, as he had learned Spanish in High School, and found a job as a waiter in a pub during the evenings and early nights. In the morning he slept. In the afternoon he worked as a volunteer in a homeless shelter. He joined the Red Cross too. Eight months later, they offered him a chance to go as a volunteer to help build schools in some countries of North Africa. He accepted.

He stayed in Africa for almost two years. The poverty, famine and penury of its habitants reminded him of those he had witnesses once, centuries ago, in the streets of Paris. He worked from down to sunset, doing whatever work was useful. He helped to build schools, and to organize camps for refugees.

He worked as a volunteer in several hospitals despite how week his medical abilities were. He distributed medicaments, sewed injuries and bandaged broken arms and feet. He offered a safe house and ways to scape to wives who were abused by their husbands, while their government deprived them of any right as citizens and human beings.

It was a few months before his twenty one birthday when the revolution broke up in Tunisia. Egypt, Libya and Yemen quickly joined the uprisings. He was staying in Cairo back then, the Egypt capital, just returned from a visit to a refugee camp, when the first shots were fired. In that first moment Enjorlas thought he was trapped in his nightmares again, that his memories had taken control of his mind the way the used to when he was only a child.

Soon hell broke loose, and he understood. This wasn’t a nightmare nor a memory. It was reality. It was happening again.

His memories of the Arab revolution, worldly known as the Spring Revolution, were few and diffuse; ironically, much less clear than those of a far more distant revolt, in the streets of Paris, in front of the Cafe Musain.

Enjorlas had thought he was going to die. It was only fitting, after all. He was almost twenty one, the age he had been when he died the first time. He joined the ranks of the revolutionaries because it was the only thing he could do, even if he had wished, more than anything, to fly back home, to run away from the gunfire, and the thunder of the cannons and the explosions of the bombs. He would never forgive himself if he abandoned this good people, people fighting for freedom and human rights, to their fates. So he stayed.

And yet, he didn’t fire a single shot. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. No after the last time. No when he could still see, every time he closed his eyes, the blood and the fear and the death on the faces of his friends. He worked as doctor on the front lines instead, putting the skills he had learned as a volunteer to the serve of the revolution. And against all the odds, he survived.

The fights wore down, eventually. One could say they had won. The previous government resigned and there was a call for elections. Things got a little better, thought there were still far away from being good.

Enjorlas didn’t wait to see the results of the out coming elections. Once the last wounded at his charge had healed, he borrowed a computer from a public café and booked a flight home. To America. He didn’t look back.

 

* * *

The pub was noisy, full of shadows and bright lights, and too warm to suit his taste. Enjorlas wasn’t sure yet of what was he doing here. This wasn’t his scene. In the two years since he came back to America, he could count the number of times he had gone out at night to have fun with the fingers of one hand.

“Having fun” was a relative term, anyway. He had fun studying for his classes, most of them, at least, and writing articles for the university’s paper.

He remembered, in that other life he had experienced once, visiting different establishment of dubious reputation with his friends in Paris and having drinks together. At least, before the last steps towards the revolution started to consume all his time.

This was a different life, though, and he liked to keep them as apart as possible.

He didn’t have many (any) friends in this reality, and sometimes he wondered if it was due to his difficult character, or if he sabotaged himself in purpose. He suspected that he had kept people away because he didn’t want a replacement for the friends he had lost in the far distant past. However, it was also truth that his childhood had been lonely, full of shrinks and self-doubts, and plagued with too much hurtful knowledge for someone so young. He didn’t know how to interact with people of his own age. He had never learned.

He was always different.

Enjorlas sighed deeply and gestured the bartender to give him one more drink. Drinking. Another art he had never mastered. He had never enjoyed the feeling of being drunk, being out of control of his own mind and responses. Today, however, he had asked for two shots and drank them straight. This one now was the fifth, and Enjolras had started to feel a little dizzy. But at least the headache had stopped.

It had been a hard week. Midterms usually were, especially for him.

When he had come back from Egypt two years ago he hadn’t had the slightest idea of what to do with his life. His parents’ welcome was as cold as could be expected, considering how terse their relationship had been before he left, and that Enjorlas had only bothered to send them a couple of mails to let them know he was still alive and a Christmas postcard in all the time he was gone.

They were disappointed on him, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It had been two long, excruciating weeks, sharing a house with his parents and sleeping in his old bedroom. The nightmares were frequent, this time about his most recent experience in Egypt. Though the bodies of the dead always turned into his friends’ faces, once they touched the ground. It was by luck that he had found some old flyers about universities and colleges in the bottom drawer of his cupboard, and the next step had become clear to him.

He sent letters to all universities that had once offered him a place, and a few came back with affirmative answers. His parents were more than happy to pay for everything and send him away, seeing how their hopes for a brilliant future for him could still be fulfilled.

They weren’t as happy when he informed them, at the end of the first semester, that he had decided to major in Social Services, but Enjorlas didn’t care. He had found part-time job in the university’s paper that he enjoyed very much, even if the salary was low; he had taken as many extra credits as he was allowed to, and, after only two years of university, he was well in his way to graduate next year.

His agenda was always full, leaving him little time for entertainment and social gatherings; and exams periods were particularly hard, making him feel tired and overworked. This time, however, it was being harder than usual.

In addition to the stress and usual lack of sleep, every time he closed his eyes his mind was full of nightmares and horrors. He didn’t think it had been this bad since the weeks after coming back from Egypt, when he used to wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and even the most innocent noise startled him.

The worst, however, was that he couldn’t figure it out what had been the trigger this time, and he was starting to become desperate. Thus, when some of his classmates from Civil Rights had invited him to go with them to a pub tonight, he had accepted without giving it much thought, telling himself that a break might make his psyche some good.

Now he regretted it.

Or at least he would, if he wasn’t too drank to think clearly. Clearly, he would regret it the next morning.

“Another, please” he gestured the bartender.

The other man, a student perhaps, judging for his looks he must be in his early twenties, eyed him critically. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Enjorlas nodded, unperturbed.

He never liked to get drunk and he rarely drank alcohol, but in that moment he felt dizzy and lighthearted, and his head didn’t hurt for the first time in weeks. He had long ago lost sight of his classmates, and the only thing holding him together was the thought of another drink, and the hope a night of dreamless sleep. It could be that both things were related.

“Yes, please” he answered, maintaining eye contact.

The bartender shrugged, and served him the shot. Enjorlas swallowed it in one go. He was too wasted to be repulsed by the taste of alcohol, but he had enough common sense left to know he should call it a night now; call a taxi, go back to his flat, and, hopefully, sleep the hangover until tomorrow in a night of dreamless sleep.

He was just about to do that… When he saw him.

It was hard to believe he had not seen him before, because the man was pleasantly drinking on the opposite side of the counter, a few meters of distance, and his eyes were fixed on Enjorlas. He didn’t seem to mind he had been caught staring, because he didn’t try to look away.

He kept staring at Enjorlas brazenly.

Enjolras recognized this man…

But it couldn’t be.

A piercing pain went through his lungs, and suddenly breathing was a very difficult task. He had to gasp for air several times; fighting to keep calm, taking conscious breaths systematically, the way his doctor had taught him after Egypt: in and out, in and out. He couldn’t pass out now. He couldn’t lose consciousness. Not now.

His distress had to be very obvious to everybody, unfortunately, because the man in the other side of the counter frowned at him and finally broke his gaze, turning his face away from Enjorlas.

No! It couldn’t be real.

It just wasn't possible.

His mind was a mess. He was hyperventilating. He was too drank to deal with his, with any of this.

He was too drank to do the right thing.  
  
He should leave… He knew he should leave. Long ago, he had sworn to himself that that was he would do, if it ever came to this. Of course, of all people, he hadn’t even dared to think it would be him. Grantaire.  
  
Enjolras was walking towards him before he had time to think it through. He crossed the room in a few steps. He stopped behind the man, who had his attention focus on some stuff over the counter and had yet to notice his presence. He was so close that Enjolras could smell him, despite the dense and loaded atmosphere of the pub.  
  
He wanted to touch him; he wanted to lift his hand and put it over the line of his shoulders, wanted to feel the heat of his body as a proof that the other man was real; no just a distant memory of the past, but flesh and blood, and here. Enjolras closed his fists. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t risk to scare him off. He needed to do things right. He needed to act normal.  
  
His head was spinning.  
  
“Hi!”  
  
It wasn’t the most fluent introduction, but it could still be worse.  
  
The other man lifted his at the sound of his voice, and seemed totally in shock at finding him there.  
      
“He- Hello!” He stammered, a few seconds too late.  
  
Enjorlas tried to smile at him, but only managed weak smile. His mind was frozen, captivated on the image of the man before him. It was his face. It was him…  
  
After centuries since they last saw each other.  
  
After years of closing his eyes only to see him walking towards him: determine, brave and solemn. After sensing the echo of his hand as it closed around his own. After feeling the pulse of his veins; steady, even at the end.  
  
But Enjolras needed to leave those memories for later. He needed to focus on the present, say something now. Unfortunately, he had never been good at making small talk.

“I saw you looking.”  
  
This seemed to embarrass the man somehow, even if it hadn’t been that his intention.  
  
“Yeah, sorry about that.”  He dropped his eyes to the floor, which made impossible to decipher his gaze.  
  
Enjolras wanted his eyes to focus only on him.  He tried again.

“It didn’t bother me. I was looking too.”  
  
“Oh…” the man blinked a couple of times, startled. Then, he raised his eyes to meet Enjolras's. “Well, I’m- ah…”

He made a motion to introduce himself.

Enjolras stopped him.  
  
“No!” He stepped back in panic. “Don’t wanna know that.”  
  
He really didn’t. He couldn’t face it. He knew that Grantaire wasn’t the name of this man, that he would introduce himself under another name. And Enjorlas understood it. He knew this person in front of him wasn’t Grantaire, his Grantaire, the man who chose to die by his side when he could have saved himself. It was only his body, his soul, his reincarnation. It was his second chance; a opportunity for a better life, a longer life. He couldn’t take away that from him. And he didn’t want to.  
  
His memories were a curse, always had been, and he wouldn’t wish them upon his worst enemy, less of all Grantaire. The last thing Enjolras wanted was for him to go through what he went.  
  
But he was drunk, and the atmosphere was too charged, and he hadn't had a night of sleep in what seemed like ages… And Grantaire was here. The most important person of his memories, the last face he saw before he died. Enjolras just… wanted to pretend a little. Pretend he had gotten him back. That they had both survived. That this was their second chance.  
  
He completely missed the hurt look and the resigned expression that clouded the other man's features after listening to his words, which were not meant to be a rejection, but had clearly sounded that way.  
  
“Okay, sorry. Sorry. I better just-” the man stood up quickly from his stool, trying to collect some papers from the counter without revealing its content.

Enjorlas blinked, confused. He forced himself to focus all his attention on him, on the present.

Grantaire looked embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed, there were wrinkles on his forehead, and his eyes were trying to hide a wound expression, unsuccessfully. And he was trying to leave.

Enjolras had to stopped him.  
  
“No!” He grasped his arm and pushed him back to his sit with a strength that surprised even himself. Grantaire frowned at him. He looked confused and a little annoyed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… I’m not good speaking to people. And I’m even less good when I’m drunk. I’m never drunk. I don’t even know why I’m drunk right now, I shouldn’t be. Just don’t go, please.” He begged, looking at him to the eyes with, what he hoped, was a pleading look.  
  
Grantaire was smiling now, if only a little, and he seemed to be slightly amused. He relaxed in the stool again.  
  
“As you wish, Apollo. I won’t go.”  
  
Enjorlas heart stopped.  
  
“What did you call me?  
  
“Well, since you didn’t seem very inclined to exchange first names…” He shrugged, resting it importance. “It fits.”  
  
“I…” Enjorlas gulped. “I like it.”  
  
This earned him another smile, one more confident and cheerful.  
      
“So, what do you do?”  
  
They began talking and, surprisingly for Enjolras, it was easy, almost too easy. He and Grantaire had never had many conversations during their old lives, not ones that didn’t include arguing. Enjorlas admitted that it was probably his fault. Nevertheless, he was very pleased at the course the night was taking and it didn’t even occur to him to blame the countless amounts of alcohol he had ingested before their fortuitous encounter.  
  
“So, you are in grade school?” he asked.  
  
Grantaire nodded, and there was still a shadow of awe in his features, as he couldn’t yet believe that Enjorlas was interested in what he was saying.  
  
“Trying to turn my Art Degree into something useful. Most likely I’ll end up as one of those overenthusiastic High School teachers.”  
  
Enjorlas laughed, feeling very relax and cheerful. Suddenly his eyes caught something over the table bar, something that Grantaire had been trying to hide since he joined him. In a quick movement, he stole it.  
  
Grantaire blinked at the sudden movement, lost for a second. His eyes followed Enjorlas, and then found the napkin that Enjorlas was holding in his hand. The same napkin that had been on his possession just a few seconds ago. The same one he had been carefully trying to hide during all their conversation.  
  
A horrified expression came over his features, and he was unable to do anything but to bring his hands to his face and try to hide himself behind them.  
  
“Oh, please, no!” He murmured.  
  
Enjorlas was staring at the napkin, first in surprise; then his face molded into a much softer expression.  
  
“Is this me?” A weak nod of confirmation. “You are very talented.”  
  
He meant it. It was a very good drawing, especially considering how far Enjorlas had been from the man while he drew him, and the scarce illumination of the place. Grantaire lifted his head, still not looking at him, but no longer hiding.  
  
“You don’t find it creepy?  I’ll understand if you want to run screaming at the opposite direction.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the temblor of his voice betrayed him.  
  
“I think it’s flattering.” He answered, totally honest.  
  
“And now I know you are not real.” The artist sighed theatrically, but both of them laughed.  
  
Grantaire’s breath was sweet and warm against Enjorlas face, much as the caramel shot he just drank, and he wanted to lose himself on it, on him.  
  
Unfortunately, once that thought had aroused in his brain, it made incredible difficult to focus on anything else. He could think of nothing but the man before him. The man who died at his side. The man who was now living and breathing, and a few centimeters away from him. Grantaire. Enjorlas wanted to hold him, wanted to hug him, to thank him, to kiss him, to lose himself on him, and to never, never, see him go.  
  
“Come back to my place.”  
  
The words were out of his mouth before he had time to register them.  
  
Grantiare stared at him.  
  
“Are you sure? I know you are drunk. I’m pretty wasted too, but I’m used to it. You said you don’t usually drink. Sure like hell doesn’t like you do. So maybe it’s not a good idea. I don’t want you to regret it.” There was much insecurity hidden between his ramblings.  
  
Enjolras felt touched.  
  
He was pretty sure this man had wanted him two hundred and fifty years ago, when the idea of physical intimacy with another person was as far from Enjorlas mind as it was humanly possible. And he wanted him now, from the moment he saw him. And yet, here he was, reluctant to do anything that Enjolras could come to regret later.  
  
Except he knew that he wouldn’t.  
  
“I could never.” He stated, totally serious, looking at him straight to his eyes. “Came back to my place.” He invited him again and, this time, Enjorlas reach out his hand towards him. And, just as it had happened once before, Grantaire didn’t hesitated. He just took it.  
  
They left the pub together.

 


End file.
